


talking to the dead

by highboys (orphan_account)



Series: Bleach AU [1]
Category: Katekyo Hitman Reborn
Genre: Alternate Universe, Death References, Gen, Shinigami
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-25
Updated: 2011-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-24 23:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/highboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yamamoto died when he was fourteen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	talking to the dead

Yamamoto died when he was fourteen.

He knew this because he'd been assigned to Namimori-cho for a few months and he'd seen his own face encased in a small shrine in the second floor at the local sushi bar. He fingered the baseball gloves on the dresser, the fraying threads of a uniform unstored. He watched his father, already sixty-five years old, cut himself with a knife as he prepared the inarizushi.

"I'm getting old," said his father, to his picture frame, "and my vision's getting rusty so I'm more careless than before. Did you know that back in the day I could cut up aburaage like it was no one else's business?"

"No, I didn't," said Yamamoto, softly. He settled on the seat across him in the dining area. "But you could tell me more."

"That's the trouble with growing senile," his father plowed on. "Can't keep track of the things I'd told you, then, or the things I could have told you before you..."

He fell silent, pensive.

His father smoothed the wrinkles of his apron with trembling fingers. He'd buried his wife, first, then his son, later, but only a decade too short. It was only in snatches of gossip that Yamamoto had heard how he had died, then -- a slow, waning depression, and he'd committed suicide, just like that.

"Say hello to your mother for me," said his father. "It's not good to make your parents worry too much, you hear me?" He tapped the glass with his nails; it brushed against Yamamoto's cheek.

"I'm sorry," said Yamamoto.

His father stared at Yamamoto's direction, as if shaken. Yamamoto wondered if he had heard him, for that brief moment, if his father were as sharp as he had claimed to be.

The packet of band aids fell to the floor, and the moment passed. His father bent to pick it up, wheezing softly, and Yamamoto felt a fist clench around his heart.

He felt the hilt of his katana on his hip; he smoothed his thumb over the engravings. There was no point in regret; he was an old hand in it, and he'd done his growing up in Seireitei already.

"I'll come back for you," said Yamamoto, "someday. I'll find you."

His father did not look up.


End file.
